


Clint, too, has a Past

by Era_Penn



Series: The Idiot Genius and His Somewhat Blind Hawk [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Funeral, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Investigating, M/M, Mystery, Sad, Snark, Tears, college kid - Freeform, fake death, henceforth known as JJ, more to be added - Freeform, no clint stop, relationship, what a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-14 13:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Era_Penn/pseuds/Era_Penn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tony was kidnapped, the Black Widow was taken out of play by three red sleeping darts. Clint recognizes those darts. He really, really wishes he didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Okay,_ Clint thought, staring down at his own headstone, _this looks bad._


	2. Chapter 2

**Three weeks earlier**

Clint spun the red dart in his fingers. One of three sleeping darts used to take down the Black Widow and facilitate the kidnapping of Tony Stark by his crazy ex-boyfriend, Clint had initially requested it to see if he could identify the shooter. When they recovered Tony before Clint could get much of a look at the darts, it had been left, forgotten, in one of his drawers, until a few months later. He’d rediscovered it at the beginning of the week and set about trying to figure out why it seemed so familiar.

It hadn’t taken him long.

Still, he hadn’t told anyone about it yet. The dart felt heavy in his hands, a doorway to a past he didn’t want to confront.

He figured he should probably tell Tony, though, because the past was less than likely to leave him alone. How to start that conversation was a riddle he hadn’t found the answer to yet, despite his best efforts.

“You’ve been fiddling with that for days.”

“Hey, Phil,” Clint said.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Took me a while, but yeah.”

“And?” 

Clint sighed and easily peeled the dart open. On the inner coating was a familiar symbol. Coulson’s sharp intake of breath told Clint that he recognized it, too. 

“Trickshot is _dead_ ,” Phil said.

“So were you.”

“...Point.”

“Besides, I wasn’t the only protege Trickshot had, just his best one.”

“What.”

Clint sighed. “Last time I saw him, Barney Barton was leaving me in a ditch to die.”

“Have you told Tony?”

“No. I don’t know how. It’s not like I can just walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, Tony. So, I have a brother, and he wants to kill me, and probably you, too, just to hurt me more!’ Yeah, that would go over well.”

“If you can’t return his trust, you may break it,” Phil said.

“I’ll tell him before the week ends. If I don’t -”

“I’ll make you.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, I needed you to stop moping.”

“Mission?”

“An in-and-out reconnaissance. Some drug lords meeting. Your tracksuit mafia is involved, I believe.”

Clint grinned. “And it isn’t even my birthday.”

* * *

The meeting took place in a generally unused courtyard. There was only one really good vantage point that Clint could find, which limited his options on concealment and infiltration. It was a challenge, and one Clint approached with great relish. The balcony that provided the view soared high above the courtyard, shared by several hotel rooms. These rooms were usually used for… dalliances. Clint had no interest in such a meeting; he had a Tony. Still, he needed to blend. So he dug out a couple of old porn vids and entered the building after a woman who was undoubtedly a, well, companion, and gestured in her direction uncomfortably as he slipped past the desk attendant. He rolled his eyes and went back to watching the fuzzy tv in the corner.

He made his way up the stairs into a room off the balcony, booked online by one Harold Williams. Once inside, he quickly set up one of the porn vids to play loudly on the tv. Despite the fuzzy picture, the audio came through loud and clear. That ready, he glanced around the room. One very large bed with dubious sheets, an open, empty closet, and a small, empty bathroom. Nothing else was in the room.

Sliding the duffel he’d brought off his shoulder, Clint dug into it, unearthing his bow (just in case), a pair of binoculars, and a recorder - he could read their lips and speak, and then they would have a decent record of what went down. He could almost accomplish reconnaissance like this in his sleep by now. 

He let his mind meander as he went through the movements of checking the room and his equipment. It had been a couple weeks since he had taken Tony out on a proper date, and their anniversary was in a couple weeks, too. He’d take Tony out somewhere in between, of course, but the big day…

Maybe he could convince the burger place they went to on their first date to let them back in the door. It had been almost a year, surely they couldn’t still be that upset over a few spitballs… and collateral damage… and… yeah, he could convince them. He could probably get Pepper to help make it happen.

God, he’d turned into such a sap.

Absently, he checked the clock. The meeting was supposed to be in ten minutes, so he turned the porn off and headed out to the balcony. Lounging comfortably against the railing, he half-unbuttoned his shirt, untucked it, ruffled his hair up, and dangled a lit cigarette from his fingers, though he didn’t put it anywhere near his mouth. No one on the ground would be able to see the bow at his feet or the knife in the back of his waistband. 

Now, how to manage the binoculars…

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Clint’s head shot up and he took a step back and scooped up his bow in one smooth movement. An arrow sank into the railing where his arm had been resting moments before. “Now now, is that any way to greet the brother you haven’t seen in over a decade?” Clint admonished.

Barney Barton scowled back at him. “You always did have a smart mouth.”

Clint nodded. “My boyfriend likes it, too.”

Barney’s eyes narrowed, and his hands flashed backwards. Clint drew from his quiver in the same instant, and found himself in the rather unprecedented situation of staring down the shaft of his arrow and up the length of another one. He didn’t like the sensation.

“Yeah, I met him,” Barney said. “He seems like the type to like a smart mouth. After all, according to my recent employers, his smart mouth is about the only thing he’s good for.”

Clint tried very hard not to react, but all the muscles in his jaw went very, very tight. He suddenly wished he’d kept a comm in his ear, even though the mission was supposed to be routine. He could really use Phil’s steady presence right then.

“I have video of the training sessions,” Barney drawled, eyes on Clint’s. “It’s a thing of beauty, watching a man like that break -”

Clint snapped.


	3. Chapter 3

Someone shook Clint’s shoulder, and he nearly put his fist in their face. They jumped back, dodged the blow, and Clint pressed his back to the wall behind him, trying to orient himself. The room spun around him, full of potential enemies.

“Agent Barton, stand down,” snapped a familiar voice. Clint froze in his attempts to find a viable exit strategy. “The rest of you, out,” the voice continued.

“Phil,” Clint finally managed, and slumped as a few cracked ribs and a pounding headache made themselves known. 

“Report.”

“He sucker-punched me, and I shouldn’t have let him bait me, but -”

“ _Who_ , Clint.”

“Barney,” Clint replied, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to shake loose the afterimage of his brother’s hate.

“I do believe your timeline has just been moved up, agent.”

“Ah, shit. Have you told Tony?”

“No. Once we get you moving in the right direction, I’ll call it in.”

Clint groaned, but took the hand offered to him. He hissed as Phil tugged him to his feet. The room spun in a dizzying whirl of color and shapes. He cradled his ribs. Clint had managed to knock Barney out before he collapsed, but there was no sign of him now. When the room settled into mostly-stillness, Clint let go of Phil’s hand. “Concussion,” he mumbled.

Phil nodded and helped him down the stairs to a waiting car. Most of the other agents averted their eyes as he passed. No one ever liked seeing a downed Avenger. Clint froze halfway down the stairs.

“Do you hear that?”

Every agent in the hallway fell silent, listening, as Clint’s mind whirled. Barney was gone when they arrived, but left Clint alive. He left _bait_.

“EVERYONE OUT, NOW!” he screeched, and every agent booked it for the doors.

Except Clint. “Phil,” he said, grabbing his wrist, stalling him just a moment. “Phil, make sure you have black coffee with extra black waiting for me.”

“...You sure?” Phil asked.

Clint thought of Tony, undoubtedly on Barney’s hit list, thought of the other Avengers right behind him, thought of his brother, looked Phil in the eye, and nodded once.

Phil nodded back, and booked it for the doors.

Clint turned, and ran the other direction.

* * *

 **S.H.I.E.L.D. AFTER-ACTION REPORT: D11-74-CB-VELOCITY0**  
 **FILED BY:** COULSON, PHILLIP J.  
 **RESTRICTED ACCESS:** LEVEL 7, ACTING AVENGERS

_Cross-reference personnel file, database ID: 13.5648.65._

**DETAILS:**   
_On a routine mission to [REDACTED], Clint Francis Barton [REDACTED]. Details [REDACTED] are unknown. Shortly after, SHIELD personnel entered the premises in search of Agent Barton, but were forced to evacuate when several bombs were detected on the property. The bombs detonated at 16:42, 8/13/2016. The wreckage was searched, [REDACTED]. Agent Barton [REDACTED], is presumed dead as of 01:39, 8/14/2016._

_During the mission Agent Barton [REDACTED]. [REDACTED]. Next of kin are being informed of his death, and funeral dates will be noted when applicable [END]._

Phil stirred the two mugs of coffee in the cafeteria before allowing his hands to rest on the table in front of him.

One of the coffees was black, and Phil added a shot of vodka to the other before lifting it. “Cheers, Agent,” he said to no one, and gulped it down.

He gave it twenty minutes before the Avengers saw the change in status. From this moment forward, Clint was dead.

Phil abandoned the spiked coffee and started drinking straight from the bottle.

* * *

Joshua James Harper felt a vein throb in his temple. It all started, he thought grimly, when he mouthed off to an Avenger while strapped to a bomb. Apparently, they found that sort of thing impressive. He made a mental note never to impress anyone ever again.

“I apologize, Ms. Potts,” he said, “but you do realize I’m not actually an assistant here?”

“You’re an intern,” she corrected, “which means you’re whatever we tell you to be, when we tell you to be it.”

“Funny,” he said. “I thought that was the definition of slavery. Which is illegal.”

Ms. Potts gave him a pitying look, as though she couldn’t believe his naivety. “Of course, JJ. Now, could you please take the files down to Mr. Stark’s workshop and get them signed?”

Josh wanted to cry, but when the CEO of the company paying for your tuition gives you an order, you hop to; JJ was no exception, and he quickly lifted the large stack of reports and made his way to the elevator.

“You heard the lady, Jarvis,” he groaned. “Take me to the ‘shop.”

“Right away, Mr. Harper,” Jarvis replied, and the elevator started to descend. JJ frowned. What, no smarmy quip? No insults? No, ‘as you wish, JJ’ as per his humor programming?

Tony must be in a bad mood. Or a self-destructive one. Or have a mood at all.

The elevator came to a stop and the doors dinged open. JJ made his way down the hallway to the workshop, opened the door with one hand, using his chin and the other hand to keep the reports balanced, and entered. He set the pile of folders on the designated paperwork desk, took a deep breath, and turned. “Alright, Mr. Stark,” he said, hands on his hips. “Ms. Potts demands the paper… work… Are you okay?”

Tony was bone white and staring at a report on the screen in front of him like it had just killed his favorite robot. He didn’t answer.

“Mr. Stark?” JJ asked, moving forward to gently rest a hand on his shoulder.

Tony turned to look at him then, eyes wide and wet and his face slowly regaining a little color - in an odd shade of blue.

“Mr. Stark, breathe!” JJ demanded, and Tony sucked in a sharp breath. Then he was sobbing all over JJ.

JJ held him up, confused but willing to rub circles on Tony’s back and hum at him soothingly. As he did so, he let his eyes wander to the screen in front of him, and his own eyes widened.

“Oh, Tony,” he sighed. He heard the ‘shop doors slide open behind him. 

“Tony?” he heard, and JJ closed his eyes.

“Hey, Captain,” he said. “I think you should probably get the others.”

“What? Why?”

JJ pointed at the screen.

He saw the exact moment Steve noted the change, as his whole face dropped and his hands started shaking.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Jarvis, get me an open channel to the others, including Ms. Potts.”

“Ready, Captain.”

“Avengers report to the common room. NOW. That’s an order. Be there in five or less… and someone make some omelets.”

Steve turned to leave. “You got this for a minute?” he asked JJ.

JJ nodded as Steve went to inform everyone and tried to hold all the pieces of Tony Stark together. Not that he could blame the man. Rubbing Tony’s spine some more and humming, JJ let his eyes flicker over the report pulled up on screen.

**S.H.I.E.L.D. PERSONNEL FILE - DATABASE ID: 13.5648.65 - CLASSIFIED: EYES ONLY**

**NAME:** BARTON, CLINTON F.  
 **STATUS:** _DECEASED_  
 **RESTRICTED ACCESS:** LEVEL 7

_Cross-reference after-action report D11-74-CB-VELOCITY0 for further information on current status._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for crack, then after that, angst.

Clint slips around the corner into a blind spot in the back alleys of Manhattan. It’s the fifth such spot he’s hit just today. Slipping his duffel free of his shoulder, Clint bends over and unzips it. Swiftly he pulls free hair, latex, and clothing, changing into an outfit entirely different from the one he wore when he entered the alley. Just as he zips the duffel bag shut again, he hears a voice.

“Dude. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

Clint whips around, vision graying out for a moment. When it clears, Spider-man stands there, arms crossed and glowering. “There’s reasons for that,” Clint croaks. He doesn’t have the time or energy for this right now. He hasn’t stopped moving in three days, too busy making sure that everyone is really, truly convinced that he’s dead.

“They’d better be damn good, because at the rate he’s going through his personal bar, your boyfriend’s going to drink himself to death.”

“Yeah, and if I turn up alive, someone else will kill him,” Clint says, and curses in his head. He’s all loose-lipped from being sleepy and feeling safe for the first time in a week. Spider-man does that to a guy; he’s very good at watching people’s backs, what with his extra sense and all. 

Spider-man eyes him, stance relaxing a bit. “You sound like shit,” the younger hero says.

“Nooooo,” Clint replies, and sways a bit on his feet as spots take over his vision for a moment. When they clear, he’s being held up by the young hero.

“...dammit,” Spider-man grumbles and leans Clint against a wall. Moments later, he’s letting Clint lean against his shoulder again, and Clint gapes. Spider-man is now a seventeen-year-old brunette in a hoodie and skinny jeans, entirely unassuming and scowly.

“You’re a kid!”

“I’m twenty!”

“Liar!”

“Is now really the time?” Spider-man demands.

Clint just gives up and decides passing out sounds really good right then.

* * *

“ _Why is there a dead guy on our sofa_?!”

“You make that sound like some sort of crime!”

“Uh, pretty sure it is, Pete! Furthermore, why does dead guy look exactly like my boss’s dead boyfriend?”

“Because said boyfriend is much, much less dead than we thought, and I didn’t know what else to do with him.”

“Sssshshhhhh,” Clint groans, and blearily opens his eyes.

“ _I hate you_ ,” the first voice hisses, and Clint frowns, trying to place it.

“...college kid,” he suddenly realizes. “The crazy one, from the bomb, with the thing.”

“Oh, he’s awake,” the college kid - JJ, if he remembers correctly - says snidely. “Now he can explain why I had to hold my crying boss for hours, and why said boss then proceeded to start slowly drinking himself to death, all over a not-dead man.”

Clint shoots upwards in alarm. “Don’t let him kill himself,” he demands harshly, even as his vision swims. That’s the whole point of this. Keep Tony alive, kill the ones causing the problem, and then go back to Tony and beg to be taken back.

He really hopes he doesn’t lose Tony over this, but if he does, at least Tony will still be alive. Clint blearily blinks his vision clear and looks around. He’s in a tiny apartment, probably two-bedroom. The ratty couch he’s sitting on is a rather sickening shade of orange, and clashes horribly with the greenish-gray beanbag tossed on the floor next to it, presumably so that Clint wouldn’t get a concussion if he fell off the couch. Standing in front of him, cross-armed and scowling like disapproving parents, are the last two people he expected to see. On the right is JJ, the poor college student Tony and Pepper are currently warring over. On the left is Peter Parker, the photographer best at getting shots of Spider-man. This suddenly makes a lot more sense, since apparently he _is_ Spider-man.

“I don’t know how much you remember,” Parker interrupts snidely, “but I dragged your sorry ass out of a sketchy alley on my way home from a late class.” 

In other words, don’t tell the roommate he’s a superhero, Clint picks up easily. “Thanks for that,” he manages to say. “How old even are you? Are you sure you’re in college?”

“Twenty.”

JJ snorts. “Eighteen last month, you lying idiot.”

Clint frowns, because Spider-man’s been operating for at least two years now, and he doesn’t like the implications.

“Speaking of lying idiots,” JJ says suddenly, and rounds on Clint, “ _what the hell_?”

“Hey. So, not dead. Nice to see you’re alive, too,” Clint says.

JJ raises an eyebrow. “Give me one good reason not to call Tony right now and tell him you’re sitting on my couch suffering from malnutrition, dehydration, and sleep deprivation.”

“If you do he, the rest of the Avengers, and probably the both of you become targets in the scheme of an assassin on par with me and Natasha, who is currently trying his absolute best to make me as miserable as is humanly possible.”

JJ pauses. “Nope,” he says, “not good enough.”

“And he’s also my brother.”

“Still not convinced.”

“And he was working with the asshole who strapped you to a bomb a few months ago to get to Tony.”

“You got STRAPPED TO A BOMB?”

“Chill, Peter. You’re way behind the times.” JJ waves it off and nods at Clint. “Fine. I’ll not tell him, for now. But I’m still not entirely convinced.”

“Josh, when did you get strapped to a bomb?!”

Clint blinks at Peter for a moment. “Josh?” he asks, bewildered. “I thought his name was JJ.”

Peter stares, and then starts sniggering.

“Shit, look at what you’ve done,” JJ groans.

“JJ,” Peter says, and he’s gasping around his laughter. “Oh, that’s perfect. You’re blonde, efficient, and threatening, in a kitten-like sort of way, but you actually manage to destroy your enemies -”

 

“Don’t even say -”

“- plus you’re one hell of a mother hen. All the _Criminal Minds_ references. I’m going to use them. All of them. Oh, this is a golden opportunity.”

JJ throws his hands in the air. “I give up. This is what I get for getting involved with superheroes, albeit against my will. _Don’t you dare take another step, Clinton Francis Barton._ ”

Clint freezes where he’s attempting to climb out the window.

Staring at the fuming JJ and the still giggling Peter Parker/Spider-man, Clint groans. What on earth has he gotten himself into?

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” JJ says, as Clint scarfs down cocoa puffs, “your brother helped kidnap your boyfriend, which incident led to me being strapped to a bomb, entirely because he was pissed at you and decided to hurt you by hurting said boyfriend. Then, your boyfriend survived and got better, and you randomly ran into aforementioned brother on a mission, at which point he proceeded to threaten to hurt said boyfriend again, just because he wanted to hurt you. So you decided the logical course of action was to pretend you were dead, thus _hurting your boyfriend_.”

“But not killing him,” Clint says. He feels that is an important distinction.

“Why is this my life,” Peter mumbles on his other side, into his own bowl of cocoa puffs.

“I demand you get counseling when this is over. Coulson will back me up on this.”

“Coulson knows.”

“What?!”

“Well, theoretically. We have a code phrase for fake death, but it’s always iffy if agents actually survive faking their own deaths. It always makes him drink.”

“...I was wondering why he was wearing sunglasses when he came over to discuss funeral details,” JJ says.

Clint finishes off his bowl of cocoa puffs. “Thanks for the food,” he says, standing. “Now, I’ve gotta get going.”

Peter calmly hooks a foot around Clint’s ankle, effectively trapping him. Damn super-strength, Clint thinks, turning a betrayed glare on him. “You’re going nowhere,” Peter says.

JJ nods. “You’ll just go and get yourself in terrible shape again, and then you’re of no use to anyone, least of all Tony.”

Clint sighs and slumps back into his seat, because he aches everywhere and they have a point. “I’m going to leave eventually. I need to find out what Barney’s plotting.”

“Duh,” JJ says. “But we should get you some backup first. You may not know this, but I interact with Agent Coulson on a daily basis. I have no problem slipping messages in with the massive stacks of paperwork.”

Clint goggles at him. “There is no way for you to escape now. They’ll recruit the hell out of you.” Peter gets all worried in the corner of his vision, but JJ just rolls his eyes.

“Nope.”

“Uh, yep.”

“No. See, I want to be an engineer. I will not be any more involved in your crazy than I have to be. Besides, with the war Pepper and Tony are currently waging over me, SHIELD doesn’t have a chance.”

“Coulson still has you delivering his paperwork.”

JJ opens his mouth, and freezes. “Fuuuuuuuuck,” he groans.

“No worries, _JJ_ ,” Peter says. “I got your back.”

Clint’s pretty sure that just makes JJ even more viable as a recruit candidate, but he won’t go bursting the spider-kid’s bubble.

“Tomorrow’s your funeral, Tom Sawyer,” JJ says, a bit bitterly. “Coming up with a plan can wait until after. You need to be in top shape for this.”

* * *

Tony’s head pounds and the weather report says there will be clear skies all day. That means the sun is shining. Logically, Tony knows this. He’s really confused though, because despite the shining sun, everything looks… gray. The sky is distinctly less blue than the last time he checked, and the normally brilliant red of his suit is… diminished, somehow. Dull. More like dried blood than liquid, flowing life. 

The sun is shining.

And Tony has to bury his very own Robin Hood today.

Rolling over, Tony covers his ears with his pillow and lets a single breathy sob soak into the mattress beneath him, letting the weight of it sink him into the solid softness as he breathed in the smell of Hawkeye. Tony’s stomach roils, and he can’t tell if it’s the hangover or the grief. Was there even a difference, at this point? Who the fuck even knew, Tony thought listlessly.

“Tony,” someone says above him, and Tony holds the pillow harder against his skull, as though he can block out the world, the day, that last phrase _from ashes to ashes and dust to dust -_

Gentle hands tug his loose and pull him up and away from the mattress. He finds himself staring into Bruce’s eyes. “Tony,” he says again, softly.

“It’s not fair,” Tony says, and he tries to hold back the tears. He’s sobbed on Bruce enough the last couple days, and Thor knows Tony owes JJ several edible arrangements. “I just found him. I just -”

Bruce wipes away the tears. “Yeah, I know,” Bruce says, and Tony lets himself break down.

* * *

The day goes on. Bruce gets Tony up and dressed in a thousand dollar suit and tie, all black. Black, black, black. Except Tony’s shades, which were actually Clint’s purple ones. He couldn’t seem to let go of them.

They meet the others. Natasha, just as torn up as Tony about the whole thing, runs late, and her eyes are red. She has known Clint for decades, the two of them closer than siblings. Tony’s lower lip trembles when he sees her, because he hasn’t even thought about how this would be affecting her, too lost in his own hurt to think about how much everyone else has to be hurting too.

He sees a similar realization in her eyes, though, so he thinks they will be okay.

Thor comes in with Natasha; he too looks as though he has been grieving, the age in his eyes more obvious than usual, and the weight of the royal armaments he wears bearing down on him. Steve follows not long after, dressed neatly in black with his shield over his spine and his blue eyes downcast. Phil steps in moments later, taking place next to them.

Tony really is worried about Phil. He’d come in with a hangover after Clint died, and Tony worries Phil blamed himself for the mess. Tony does, a bit, despite his best efforts and all logic telling him it isn’t Phil’s fault. A tiny voice in the back of his head still insists that if Phil hadn’t ordered Clint out, Clint would be alive.

He squashes it. Phil hurts, too, he just hides it better, and Tony is too tired to be properly angry anyway.

Jane comes in, letting Thor lean on her; metaphorically. She’d fall over if it became literal. Pepper and Rhodey join them too, taking Bruce’s spot holding Tony up. He thinks he’ll fall over if he tries to move, so it’s probably for the best that they each take a side, ready to catch him if he stumbles. They’re always ready to catch him. JJ comes in with Pepper. Tony remembers vaguely that the intern is taking care of all the paperwork and organization for this.

Bruce goes to support Phil and Natasha, and to give them someone to support. They do better when they have someone to take care of.

It’s still sunny outside, and everything is still leeched of its color, when they troop outside to where Happy has the limo waiting.

In a few days, there will be a big ceremony to commemorate Hawkeye. Today, though, today is just for Clint. 

The funeral is probably lovely, but Tony misses most of it. He spends the time staring at the sky. The others had asked if he wanted to say anything, but Tony just - he can’t. He just can’t. Instead he wonders what happened to the color blue. It’s all white looking now. Except Steve’s eyes, so much like Clint’s in shade. At the same time, nothing like them at all. 

The others retreat one at a time, until it’s just Tony and Natasha standing there. Phil’s the last to go, and probably would stay longer, but Tony’s pretty sure he’s trying to find out who set the explosives, who killed Hawkeye. So Natasha and Clint stand in front of the obsidian headstone and stare at it, the colorless black stone shaped like a flame and carved deep with the name of the man who saved them from themselves.

Clint Francis Barton.   
Hawkeye. Hero. Friend.

Trite words that don’t carry as much weight as they should, that don’t even begin to capture the movement and hilarity and life that Clint Barton is. Was.

Tony shakes. Eventually, Natasha leaves, too.

Then it’s just Tony, standing at the grave.

Ignoring the expensive suit and the fresh dirt, Tony collapses, reaching into his suit for the bottle everyone knew was there and no one pointed out.

Halfway through the bottle, for the first time since he left the house, he starts to talk.

* * *

"I loved you. Don' know if you knew tha', but I hope you did." Truths never meant to be said out loud pour from his lips as he stares at the empty tombstone. The bottle dangles from his fingers. "You stuck with me longer'n anyone else ever has. 'Cept - cept Ty, Tiberius, and Pep says he doesn' count cause he was a bastard." A pause. "Prolly right."

Clint chokes a bit from his hiding place, because he could fix this right now. All he has to do is let one arrow fly; let one audible footstep fall. But Tony's next words stop him.

"Everyone I loves dies. Maybe tha's my punishment...maybe all th' reward I'll ever get. Because, because if I try t' hope you faked your death like Tash did that one time -" Tony coughs. "Then I have t' believe you don' want me anymore, and I think tha' would be worse. Then again, you'd b' out there smiling. Not at me, but still, and either way you're gone, an' I can't picture you with someone else or I'll go madder 'n... Don' think anyone's ever told me they loved me and meant it before. Never been kissed like... Like I was something to be careful with, to treasure."

A long silence, and Tony closes his eyes, Clint watching in utter horror as something glistening swiftly tracks its way down his cheek, followed by many more. "I loved you." Tony says. "And I didn' even - I never - "

No! No, this was all wrong! He'd known, even if Tony rarely said the words. He could see it in the careful maintenance of his gear when Tony thought he wasn't looking, in the carefully constructed arrows not even Bruce was allowed to touch. He knows Tony loves him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. I never am, though - enough, that is. You made me feel like I was, I should've known the universe was just waiting t' screw m' over. You'd probably hit me if you could hear me now, huh? You'd get tha' look on your face, the one like I've just said somethin' wrong, but you woudn' say anything and tha's worse because what if you're just waiting to leave because I'm all broken glass and ragged edges, and I don' even know what I've done wrong, for those looks." 

Those looks. The ones he wore when Tony said something self-loathing. They were meant for Howard and Stane and Stone and everyone who'd ever driven him to that. Not for Tony. never for Tony.

Tony chokes on a silent sob, the tears not even roughening his voice; he is all too used to hiding his grief. The billionaire upends his bottle over the dirt, whiskey running through the earth. "S the only thing I could think to give. Only thing I was ever good for - drink and a good fuck. Still the only thing I'm good for, really, only you kept making want to not believe that. Remember that time you asked why I always had an unopened bottle of whiskey?"

Though thrown by the change in topic, Clint does. Tony hadn't ever answered.

"It's 'acos whiskey's for mourning." Tony says. "And if I'm feeling happy I'm gonna need it soon acos the universe doesn't like me to be happy, so I'm always prepared. Only fair, I s'pose, considering all the blood on my hands."

Silence again. "Yeah," Tony says hoarsely. "I prolly shoulda seen this coming. I don't deserve anything as good as you are... Were... It was jus' a matter of time."

Clint chews on his fist to keep silent. How long has Tony believed this? How could Clint not have noticed, how could he not have seen?

He doesn't move when it begins to rain. It was a bit saltier and sunnier than usual for rain, he thought distantly, eyes on the one he loved, sitting in the dirt of his grave and shaking with loss. Tony doesn't seem to notice, and Clint blinks at a figure behind the other man, fingers going to his bow.

"Tony." Happy says softly. "Come home." Clint relaxes.

"I am home." Tony replies, fingers tracing the carved letters in the stone before him.

"Come back to the tower." 

Slowly, Tony nods. "Yeah."

Clint should let him leave. Clint should turn on his heel and walk away, back to the tiny apartment he’s crashing in with Peter and JJ. He should vanish, like the dead. He’s dead now. It’s a strange feeling.

But he can’t leave Tony like this. He can’t.

So Clint follows.

He knows where they’re going, so he doesn’t stick close; Happy would notice a tail, and he can’t be noticed. Clint ends up at the tower as Tony staggers out of the limo clutching a brand new bottle, and circles around the back. 

He hesitates. If he goes in now, Jarvis will know, but Jarvis is also bound to Clint’s orders as surely as Tony’s. Clint doesn’t want to use the access Tony gave him like this. But he can’t leave Tony the way he is now.

Clint punches in the backdoor code and steps into the black elevator. “Jarvis,” he says. “Tell no one at any point in any way that I have been here, or could have been here. They have to believe I’m dead, J, they have to.”

“Why?” Jarvis asks, and he can’t disobey, and Clint can hear the anger and betrayal in his voice.

“Because anyone who knows I’m alive turns into a target. I will be back. I swear I’ll come home and tell them all myself, and then leave, if that’s what they want. But they can’t know, yet. They can’t.” Clint’s voice trembles because it hurts. He’s alone. He has Peter, and JJ, but really, he’s alone. No Natasha at his back. No Tony at his side, no Phil in his ear.

Once upon a time, Natasha joked he was more like a starling than a hawk, needing a colony so he doesn’t freeze to death. He supposes she’s right, but now he just needs to live long enough to make it back to his flock.

“Take me up to the vent access above the workshop.”

Jarvis doesn’t reply, but the elevator starts to move, stopping between floors where Clint can slip inside the ventilation system. The path to Tony’s workshop is more familiar than the path to his room, but it’s stranger and stranger the closer he gets to the ‘shop, because Clint can hear no sound. There’s no clanging of metal or curses at tiny burns and scratches. There’s no blaring music or snarking Jarvis.

Reaching the opening from the vent, Clint sees why.

Tony is well and truly drunk now. At this point, he’s likely to assume anything he sees or hears is a hallucination, if he even remembers it. And he’s crying as he tries to work open a brand new bottle. It’s strong stuff, too, and far from good. He’s trying to drink himself to death, as everyone keeps telling him.

Clint should leave. He should slide back through the vents and out of the tower, make his way back to JJ and Peter’s place. He should vanish, because he needs to be dead.

Instead, Clint slips out of the vent and walks forward to take the bottle out of Tony’s trembling fingers.

“Aw, Tony,” he sighs, “you should take care of yourself better.”

“Why?” Tony asks, and his voice is slurred even worse than earlier at Clint’s grave. “You’re dead, and I can’t even get away from the memory of you when I’m drunk, what even is this, why do I have to hallucinate _you_ -”

“Come on, Tony,” Clint says, and heaves him to his feet, pulling him over to the couch and settling him into it. He doesn’t have the time to address everything. He can’t even really get Tony put back together. But maybe he can remind Tony that he has other people now, too, that Clint would want him to keep fighting if Clint died. “Don’t be like that,” Clint says, trying to be lighthearted about it. “You’ve gotta keep fighting for me. And the others are probably missing you, too, the way you’re all locked away.”

Tony sniffs. “Don’t want them,” he says petulantly, “Want _you_.”

Clint sucks in a dry breath and forces himself to smile. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I don’t want you to be all alone, though. It’s not good for you.”

“It’s not good for you either,” Tony says, and he’s crying again. “You pretend, but I bet you’re pretty lonely, wherever you are.”

“Nah,” Clint says. “They’re lettin’ me keep an eye on you, instead of languishing away. Gotta keep an eye on you, don’t I? Please, I want you taking care of yourself. Don’t go wasting your life over me.”

Tony sobs. “Jeez, you and Yinsen are both so selfish. Fine, fine! Fine. Just stay, just stay tonight, I can’t… Please, Clint, don’t leave.”

Clint sighs and lies next to him on the couch. Clint should leave. He should go, before there’s a chance of someone catching them. Instead, he settles in and wraps his arms around Tony. “I’ll stay to sing you a lullaby, okay? Just long enough. And I’ll be around, even if you don’t see me, okay?”

Tony just catches his shirt in a death grip and shudders.

Clint opens his mouth and sings.

“ _Here I am waiting, I’ll have to leave soon,  
Why am I holding on?  
We knew this day would come, we knew it all along,  
How did it come so fast?  
This is our last night but it’s late  
And I’m trying not to sleep  
‘Cause I know when I wake  
I will have to slip away…_”

Tony holds on tighter, and Clint cracks a half smile. His voice is decent, at least, but it’s rough because Tony’s not the only one who wants to cry. Clint is going to have to leave. He has to, to make sure Tony stays safe. This, this is it. This is all he has to try and make Tony take care of himself until Clint comes back.

“ _And when the daylight comes I'll have to go  
But tonight I'm gonna hold you so close  
'Cause in the daylight we'll be on our own  
But tonight I need to hold you so close  
Ooh whoa, ooh whoa, ooh whoa  
Ooh whoa, ooh whoa, ooh whoa..._”

This is going to be rough. He’s going to be very, very alone in the coming weeks. This song is starting to feel a lot like a goodbye, and Clint wonders if it’s a bad thing. Tony and Clint didn’t get to say goodbye before Clint “died,” but what if this is it? What if Clint doesn’t make it back?

He will NOT leave Tony without saying goodbye.

“ _Here I am staring at your perfection  
In my arms, so beautiful  
The sky is getting bright, the stars are burning out  
Somebody slow it down  
This is way too hard  
'Cause I know, when the sun comes up  
I will leave, this is my last glance  
That will soon be memory._”

Tony is drifting off. He’s mostly asleep, eyelashes fluttering against his gaunt cheeks and breathing evening out.

“Love you,” Tony mutters. “Don’t go…”

But Clint has to. “Sorry,” he whispers, in lieu of a promise he can’t make, and lets his own tears mix with Tony’s. He presses his forehead lightly to Tony’s and tries to smile. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

When false dawn is on the horizon, Clint slips out the same way he came in, and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sorry not sorry. Hahaha... haha... ha... no okay I made myself cry I am kinda sorry.
> 
> Song is _Daylight_ by Maroon 5, which I do not claim to own or have any rights to.
> 
> ~Era


	5. Chapter 5

Clint stares at the ceiling as the door opens and then clicks shut.

“Has he even moved since I left?” JJ asks.

“I’m not sure he’s blinked,” Peter replies.

Clint hears someone shuffling around but doesn’t bother to shift. The couch may have molded to his form sometime in the last two days. He’s fairly sure he would leave an imprint if he did get up now.

“I’m _certain_ he hasn’t showered,” JJ continues. “I could smell him from the door.”

Peter sniggers, and silence falls again. Clint knows the routine like the back of his hand. Peter will dive into his homework, while JJ lays in bed for a while to nap off the after-effects of working at SI all day. Clint closes his eyes and sinks a little further into the couch.

Out of nowhere, he feels a drop of water land on his forehead. Frowning, he begins to open his eyes to check if the upstairs apartment is leaking or something. He doesn’t get them more than a crack open before he is doused in what seems like an ocean of cold, _cold_ water. He shoots up with a yelp, swinging instinctively at the empty air above him. Sniggers from the other side of the room make him scowl. “What was that for?” he asks, wiping water out of his eyes and levering himself off of the wet couch.

“We’re sick of you moping on our couch,” JJ replies. “Do you know how much moping I’ve had to deal with lately? Oh, wait, no, you don’t, because no one’s moping except you. They’re all grieving instead. And I see no progress being made on making it stop.”

“They’re never going to forgive me for this,” Clint sighs.

“Not if they hear you wasted time moping,” Peter piped up. “Otherwise, I’ve found it’s surprising how much can be forgiven.”

“No, I’m still ticked at you for missing our lunch date. You definitely owe me one,” JJ growled at Peter before turning back to Clint. “Do you really think Tony would let go that easy? Tony?”

“...Point.”

“I’m pretty sure I caught him researching resurrection rituals the other day. And he’s definitely trying to figure out who to get revenge on.”

Clint shot out of his seat. “No, then they’ll be gunning for him anyway, despite the whole fake death thing!”

“Well then, you better get to dealing with it, hm?”

“Fiiiine.”

“Good. Now, what do you need me to get from Coulson?”

* * *

Coulson stared at the stack of paperwork in front of him. It was rather larger than he expected it to be. 

“Good luck,” JJ grumbled. “And you owe me.”

Coulson frowned. He did not make a habit of owing people, and he doubted JJ of all people could get one over on him. Oh, JJ had potential, but he was hardly a trained SHIELD agent. “Do I?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

“So, so much,” JJ said, not even blinking. “Let me know when to pick those up. Keep in mind ‘ensuring Tony doesn’t kill himself’ has been added to my list of official duties, so I’ll be busy.”

“Noted,” Phil replied, reaching for the paperwork. He was curious now. What on earth could have JJ that convinced of Phil’s debt?

The first dozen documents were routine and completely expected. So were the next dozen. Phil started wondering if he was missing something. Then, he hit the thirtieth document in the stack and paused. Off-site coffee requisitions? Without any hint at all of cream, sugar, or any other flavoring? What the hell? It would have been small to anyone else, but Phil had been granting and denying coffee requisition forms for as long as he could remember working at SHIELD. Agents were very, very specific about how they took their coffee, so even if some drank it black, someone on their team took it with ungodly amounts of sugar and cream. It was SOP to order extra of everything too, as once the preparation of the perfect cup of coffee placated a mercenary long enough to talk them into switching sides.

A hunch started growing in the back of Phil’s mind, and he stood. Walking over to an apparently empty wall, he carefully traced the symbol of a lock onto the blank expanse. It glowed once he completed it, then a number pad popped up. He input a code, and a section of the wall swung open. It revealed a safe full of seemingly useless books. Reaching deep into the safe, Phil retrieved an old, worn copy of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. He shut the safe and took the book back to his desk. Turning to page 394, he held the pages open and pulled a knife from his belt. Carefully, he cut down the spine of the book. The spine had been hollowed out, and Phil removed the thin, coiled sheet of paper resting inside. Then, he closed the book and set it aside.

He opened the sheet of paper, which was much larger than it appeared at first glance, and started using the code written on the scrap to attempt to decode the coffee requisition form.

Phil almost smirked as a message began to appear. He’d struck gold. He’d have to finish decoding the message to get the details, but just from the code used and the opening line - okay, this looks bad - he knew one thing with certainty.

Agent Clint Barton was alive.

* * *

Josh waited down the street from Stark Industries with sweat gathering on his neck. He tapped his foot and checked his phone. The bus was late. Of course today of all days he had to catch the bus. Plus, the backpack he was wearing was heavy.

He had been alarmed when, upon returning to Phil’s office at the end of the day to retrieve some of the completed paperwork for Pepper, he discovered his backpack sitting next to Phil’s desk. His backpack which he had not brought to work with him. Phil had gestured at it. “Do refrain from leaving your belongings in my office, Mr. Harper.”

“Sorry,” Josh replied.

“I do, in fact, owe you one,” Phil Coulson continued. “Check the front pocket when you’re home.”

“Uh, sure,” Josh said, lifting the backpack onto his back. “Is this going to be a repeat of the diner?”

Coulson gave him a look like he didn’t get it. “As worried as the TSA are about unattended bags, my office is rather secure. If you leave it behind again, I make no promises.”

Apparently Josh was supposed to take the bag. He retrieved the paperwork, delivered it to Pepper - who had raised an eyebrow at the backpack, but not said anything - and then ran down the street to wait for the bus.

Which was late. On the day Josh was carrying a rather suspiciously heavy backpack that he hoped was just a replica of his, because otherwise that meant someone had actually gone to his apartment and gotten his, and he had a supposedly dead hawk on his couch. He was faintly relieved the bag wasn’t ticking, but Coulson was smart enough not to make a bomb make sound.

Oh well. If it seemed like it was going to blow up he’d let Peter take care of it with his super-secret superpowers, and then play dumb when Peter lied really badly to try and cover up why he disappeared at the same moment Spider-Man houdinied into the apartment.

Six minutes after it was due, the bus pulled up to the curb. Josh climbed on board, easily swinging the backpack down to rest by his feet as he squished onto the crowded vehicle. He tucked a leg through the straps so no one could grab it, and simultaneously claimed enough leg room not to fall over at every bump. Win win. Still, the hair on the back of his neck prickled every time someone glanced his way, and he probably had a face like he had just robbed a bank. He definitely wasn’t cut out for this, Josh decided. And Clint owed him way more than one favor, definitely more like three at this point. Josh was going to keep count, and he would make the favors hurt. By the time the bus reached his stop, Josh felt like he was going to fall over from the tension.

Sighing, he swung the backpack back up onto his shoulder. He saw another student with a large backpack giving him a sympathetic glance as he elbowed his way off the bus, and relaxed a little. Right, it was totally normal to carry around a big backpack as a student. Especially students in Engineering. Or art. Or music.

He did his best to walk the two blocks home normally. He felt himself speed up a couple of times, but forced himself to relax. Eventually he reached his building. He buzzed in, and climbed the rickety staircase to his apartment. He nearly dropped his keys but managed to get the door open and shuffled his way in. He let the backpack fall off his shoulder onto the floor with a sigh of relief. Bending over, he slid the front pocket open. A small, plain notebook rested inside. Josh pulled it out and flipped it open.

P.C’s GUIDE TO TRAINING VIOLET HAWKS, read the first page.

Josh nearly laughed out loud. Zipping the front pocket shut, he dragged the backpack into the living room and dropped it on the couch. Remarkably, it wasn’t full of moping Avenger. “Delivery,” he called. No response. Apparently Clint had actually left the apartment. Hopefully Peter was keeping an eye on him. Josh didn’t want to deal with cleaning up Clint Barton-sized messes.


	6. Chapter 6

_An Introduction to Falconry.  
So you’ve decided to acquire a hawk. Be advised that they are loud, smelly, and tend to attract vermin. On the other hand, once trained, they are remarkably effective and loyal pets for those who are willing to go to the trouble. Proceed with your end goal in mind. You want to win the war, not the battle._

* * *

Peter perched on the roof above random alley number eight. It didn’t really look all that different to him than any of the other alleys Hawkeye had visited. The trash bin was close to overflowing and smelled rank, there was some random, scattered graffiti, on one notable occasion a few sleeping hobos that did not take kindly to Hawkeye’s intrusion, and absolutely nothing of use. At least, nothing Peter could see. In the last seven alleys, though, Hawkeye had acquired various weapons and gadgets from clever hiding places. Impossible hiding places. Quite frankly, Peter was pretty sure magic was involved in at least four of them.

“You better not be in uniform, kid,” Clint said.

Peter easily skittered down the wall to stand with him. “I know better than to wear a very distinctive spandex outfit when sneaking around. The press are drawn to it like Doom to robot armies.”

Clint nodded in approval at Peter’s rather discreet jeans, hoodie, and sunglasses. Hood down. They weren’t committing crimes, here. Peter grinned with pride. Hawkeye liked his sneaky gear. “You’ve got super-strength, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Think you could tip this dumpster on its side and hold it there for… oh, six minutes?”

“Uh… sure? You’ll owe me one, though. It’ll take a week to get the smell out.”

“Yeah, yeah, bill me when I come back from the dead.”

Peter leaned over and easily tipped the dumpster up, scattering some of the loose trash on top of the pile around the alley. Hawkeye slid under the dumpster and started doing something. The odd _shh-k-k-k-shhh-k_ sound that resulted was familiar. “Dude, did you duct tape something to the bottom of a dumpster?” Peter asked incredulously. “And seriously, six minutes? How much did you use?”

“A lot,” Hawkeye replied. “How are you not even out of breath?”

“Um, I’m secretly Batman.”

Hawkeye snorted. “Yeah, and JJ’s actually a crime-fighting super spy.”

Peter’s breath did quicken a little at that, though he managed to get it under control enough to let out a stuttered laugh at the attempted joke. He could not handle that. JJ was one of the very few people Peter actually cared about that was still in the land of the living. Enough of Peter’s loved ones had died. He legitimately would have a breakdown if it happened again.

“You okay, kid?”

“Fine,” Peter replied.

“You sure? Sounded a bit like you had a mini panic attack just then.”

“Nope.”

“If you’re worried about JJ, don’t be. Natasha kidnaps him for training a couple times a week. By the time she’s done with him, the Hulk couldn’t beat him.”

“...She frightens me.”

“She frightens everyone with a modicum of sense, kid.” Hawkeye crawled out from under the dumpster, and Peter lowered it slowly. No need to drop it with a bang and alert the entire city.

Turning around, Peter’s jaw dropped. He pointed straight at Hawkeye. “What - how -”

“You didn’t think I’d go into this without proper weaponry, did you?”

“You duct-taped a bow and several quivers to the bottom of a dumpster in a shitty alley in Queens?!”

“Well, no one would ever look there.”

Peter let his arm drop. “I hate you. I hate this.”

“Welcome to the Avengers.”

“No. I refuse.”

“Too late.”

“No.”

“We come with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner.”

Peter tried desperately to suppress his squeal of delight. After taking a few deep, calming breaths he was sure Hawkeye noticed, he sighed. “Is there tuition reimbursement?”

“Only if Tony lets you talk him out of paying off all of your schooling.”

“...I’ll think about it,” Peter said. He just knew he was going to regret this. “Now what?”

“Now,” Clint said, “we get JJ to talk to Darcy.”

“Who’s Darcy?”

* * *

JJ pretends very hard that he has no idea that he has any idea that a certain Avenger’s death has been greatly exaggerated. On the plus side, he’s pretty sure SHIELD will stop trying to recruit him now. On the negative side, he’s really, really, _really_ bad at the whole “pretending not to know things” thing. Well, kind of. He’s pretty much always pretending not to know something, so no one really knows the difference between that and his normal behavior, but still. 

“Well, helloooooo there,” a voice behind him says, with much more volume and salaciousness than JJ feels is warranted. 

“Um, hello,” he says, turning to find a brunette with an impressive amount of chest pouring over her folded arms staring at him with one arched eyebrow. “I’m looking for a… Darcy Lewis?”

“Oh, honey,” the brunette - apparently Darcy Lewis - purrs, smirking wider and wider. “Who do I need to send a fruit basket for the delight?”

“Oh God. What even is my life?” JJ wonders.

“So what can I do you for? I have a ten around here somewhere.”

“I’m worth at least - wait. No. I have a thing. For you. Top secret. Coulson says he’ll kill me if it is seen by anyone else, so please avoid that.”

Darcy’s eyes light up with unholy glee. “For me!~ He shouldn’t have!”

Yeah, JJ was starting to get that feeling. He silently held out the flash drive and burner phone Coulson had given him. “I recommend using that out of line of sight of any cameras,” he said. “In that I’m not sure what kind of chaos it will cause if you don’t.”

“Chaos, hm… So tempting. But it would be a shame for such a pretty boy to die.”

JJ’s cheeks heated up. More. “I’m just gonna - yeah bye, let me know if that gives you any trouble, or not, you know what it’s all on there yeah bye!”

Darcy snickered behind him as JJ made a strategic retreat. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but he was definitely a bit out of his depth, there. Besides, he had work to do.

* * *

The Stark Industry Archives were massive. Even the files stored on electronic servers since just after the second world war took up several warehouses all on their own. JJ was most interested in the most recent of them. Those warehouses which contained detailed information on Tiberius Stone, Obadiah Stane, and the various stolen weapons Tony had been able to track down and either destroy or recover. He winced as he used the passwords and backdoors into the systems that Clint gave him. Hopefully this wouldn’t get him fired. He’d be pissed if he got fired over a hunch.

JJ scrolled and clicked through dozens of files, folders, drives, and servers. He pored over old accounting records and cross-examined with manufacturing records. He raced through the earliest years, finding a few simple patterns he scanned for to keep track of Stane’s double-dealing. As he got closer and closer to the present day, he slowed. Not only did the records and cover-ups become much more complex, but he was worried about missing what he was looking for - specialty arrows. Under the table specialty arrows, not the occasional orders for the Olympics.

...The winter Olympics. Bingo. The shipping address changed almost every time over the six years of illegal orders, but most were in Iowa. There were only four that were in New York, and three in New Jersey. Seven was a manageable number, even for one archer with minimal resources and a tendency to stumble across chaos every time he looked out the window. He scrawled the addresses onto a sticky note and stuffed it in his pocket.

He headed straight home after his act of corporate espionage. He was not paid enough to go into work for the rest of the day after that, especially when his direct bosses were too busy mourning a man who wasn’t dead to give him anything to do.

Peter and Clint were both out when JJ got home. JJ figured that would be the case. Peter maintained a very careful balance between studying, eating, and saving lives. He never seemed to sleep, either, so the only times JJ really saw him were mealtimes and when they were busy cramming for midterms or finals. As for Clint, since the day JJ doused him, he refused to stop working to get back to the rest of the Avengers. Clint had been restless, so even when he had little to do except wait on leads, he was out on the streets doing something. Hopefully making sure Peter didn’t do something stupid and die, or browsing flowers, chocolates, and remote control toys again. Red and blue were _not_ great colors to die in. Would not look good at an open casket funeral.

Groaning, JJ slipped off his backpack and threw himself face first into the couch. It really was a pretty comfortable couch, he could see why Clint had been so enamored of it. They would need to Febreeze it again, though. It still smelled like depressed archer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the long wait! Life was happening. I graduated, and got a job - with a two hour commute one way. Then I moved, and then I had to unpack, and now I finally have time! A million thanks to Hawkwind1980, as usual, for her amazing beta reading!
> 
> ~Era


	7. Chapter 7

_Basic Care and Feeding of Your Hawk_

_Left to its own devices, the violet hawk’s diet consists of sugary cereal, bacon, peanut butter sandwiches, MREs, and the rare can of Campbell’s soup. You can sneak healthy food into your hawk’s diet by leaving small bags of snacks (such as trail mix, beef jerky, and other relatively healthy treats) along its preferred travel routes and near its nests._

* * *

Phil took a long, long gulp of coffee and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of him. Normally he didn’t really mind paperwork. It was reassuring to put in writing that his people weren’t dead. Situations like this just ruined that for him. And the aftermath of a fake death scenario involved far more paperwork than even Phil could handle without at least twice as much coffee as he was already drinking. Clint was going to owe him big. So big. Maybe even babysitting Phil’s extensive clan of nieces and nephews big. Multiple times. Or maybe Phil would just kill him. Less paperwork involved.

Phil’s phone vibrated on the desk next to him. He eyed it. It buzzed again and Phil groaned. Unlocking the device, Phil eyed the text he had just received in bewilderment.

_Unknown: YOU DO LOVE ME, I KNEW IT!!! Oh, honey, your new paper boy is adorable, and Im keeping him_

_Unknown: I know you have your phone_

Phil closed his eyes. Of course Clint wasn’t content just to fake his death. No. Clint had to involve the only person on the planet who could rival Clint and Tony in sheer volume and tenacity.

_I’m blocking your number._

_Lewis: Thats not very nice_

She was leaving out punctuation just to screw with him. Forget killing Clint. No, that was too easy. Phil was going to give him to Pepper for a week, and then lock the archer in a room until he completed every scrap of his backlogged paperwork from the last decade. After which, Phil was forcing Clint to chaperone all of Phil’s nieces and nephews through a visit to Disney. Disney World, just so Clint had to deal with the flight, too. _Then_ Phil would kill him, slowly.

Tony could watch, if he wanted. Maybe then he’d actually come out of his workshop.

_Tell the idiot to hurry up. He’s got people waiting._

Phil set his phone aside and ignored the following three buzzes, turning back to his paperwork. If he got behind now he’d never catch up again.

* * *

Clint resisted the urge to tap his foot against the roof. As good as the music echoing from the open window below him was, he didn’t need to get the attention of a curious New Yorker after going through so much trouble to be “dead.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small ziploc bag. He’d started finding random little bags of various dried fruits, beef jerky, and trail mix in his pockets, bags, and favorite perching spots. He suspected Phil had found some sort of small imaginary creature, like a house elf or a brownie, to follow him around and leave bits of nuts where Clint was likely to eat them. 

He popped open the little bag and started munching on the snack. As he did so, he peered over the edge of the roof at the small cafe on the other side of the street. The tiny place was a popular spot for couples, and Clint was on a mission. He called it Operation Convince Tony to Take Me Back After This Mess, but he hadn’t come up with a good acronym yet. That was usually Phil’s job. So far, the cafe had sported three break-ups, half a dozen make-ups, and many more regular dates. Clint was starting to realize this may not be the best way to get ideas to get Tony to take him back. Neither Tony nor Clint was anything like any of these normal people.

Maybe, Clint thought, he should head back to the toy store. He’d already gotten two remote control helicopters, a remote control Ferrari, two small RC monster trucks, and four rolls of duct tape, but he figures one more present can’t hurt.

Though, JJ told Clint that if he brought back any more boxes to the crowded apartment, he would force Clint to lived on the fire escape for a few days to save on space. Maybe he should get a storage unit? ...That’s definitely overkill.

Clint sighed and stared into his now-empty snack bag. This wasn’t helping. He wasn’t going to get Tony back with a variety of small, deficient toys. This was too big. Tony had _cried_. Clint shoved the wrinkly bag into his pocket ferociously and stood. “God, I’m an idiot,” he muttered. Making his way over to the fire escape, he started climbing down. He put enormous effort into moving silently, concentrating on each step and movement to block out any other thoughts.

“...ingmaster.”

“Seriously? Are you going to take the gig?” a man with a wheezy voice asked.

Clint paused, listening on the conversation happening in the alley below.

“I dunno. I mean, it’s the _ringmaster_. Lemme tell ya, there’s not really any comin’ back from that.” The second man was obviously from Brooklyn. 

“Trickshot got out.”

“I ain’t Trickshot.”

“But you got Ringmaster interested.” Wheezy said, voice awed.

There was a pause. “Bit worried they need a fall guy,” Brooklyn said.

Yeah, probably, Clint thought. Carefully, he lowered himself another floor.

“I gotta go,” Brooklyn grumbled. “Lizzie’ll kill me if I’m late.”

“See ya.”

One pair of footsteps left the alley, and Clint frowned, slipping a little lower. The stinging scent of smoke reached his nose. Clint resisted the urge to sneeze and chanced a quick glance over the edge of the fire escape. The man leaned against the wall facing away, down the alley. As Clint watched, Wheezy pulled out a phone and checked it, then breathed out another large plume of smoke.

Clint slipped down the fire escape, glad he’d left the ladder down when he climbed up. He stepped off lightly. With a beanie and sunglasses on, he looked like any other New Yorker walking down the street. Albeit a fairly hippie one. He froze as a phone rang. 

Wheezy picked up the phone. “Yeah.” A long pause. “‘Course I got it. I ain’t no amature.” Another pause. “I’ll be there.” Wheezy hung up and put the phone back into his jacket pocket. Taking one last drag on his cigarette, Wheezy scuffed it out on the cement with his foot and headed out. Clint followed, merging back into New York foot traffic seamlessly. He palmed a small tracker. As they reached a particularly busy intersection, Clint slipped forward and dipped his hand into Wheezy’s jacket and snagged the phone. As the light switched to walk, he brushed past and let the tracker stick to the coat. Seeing a bus pull up, he booked it to get on - it was a good excuse for his sudden rapid movement.

Taking a spot near the back door of the bus, Clint checked the route number and grimaced. It was an express bus to the other end of Manhattan. Hopefully the phone in his pocket was worth the walk back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... so... at least I updated quickly. Please don't kill me for the cliffhanger. >:D  
> As usual, a billion thanks to Hawk for all her help with beta reading and brainstorming! Oh, and a thanks to all of you for your comments - I haven't been able to reply to all of them, but they were fabulous!
> 
> ~Era


	8. Chapter 8

_The violet hawk tends to hoard weaponry. In particular, the violet hawk favors bows and arrows, knives, various explosives, and assorted items which cause minor pain and inconvenience (for example, legos and marbles)._

Tony stared down at the most offensive item he had ever had the misfortune to step on, and felt his eyes well up with tears. Just because of the pain involved.

The bright purple lego, custom made for Hawkeye in return for Legos being marketed as superhero-approved, laughed up at him. 

“You stupid little - you goddamn -” Tony hiccuped. “You - you - you goddamn stupid sonuva- inanimate piece of plastic junk and - and -”

“You tell that Lego, sir,” Jarvis interjected drily.

Tony sighed and shook off the moment of weakness. Leaning over, he picked up the tiny purple toy, cradling it like a limited edition Pokemon figurine in the hands of a ten-year-old boy from the nineties. He twisted it between his fingers. From the outside, Tony supposed, he probably looked like the picture of a calm, rational human being, and not like he was having the worst emotions he’d ever experience over a _Lego_ , of all things. Well, almost the worst. All of the emotions associated with Clint being gone had just suddenly jumped out and attacked him from some dark shadowy part of his soul he had been trying to ignore for the last week, is all.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony looked up. JJ was standing at the end of the hallway, looking at him a little worriedly. “Oh. Good morning,” Tony said. JJ’s arrival meant it was morning. He turned his attention back to the Lego.

“Tony,” JJ said softly, footsteps approaching Tony’s spot. A hand reached into Tony’s line of vision and Tony flinched away, curling the hand holding the Lego into his chest. There was a long pause. “What have you got there?” JJ asked. He made no move to take the Lego, just reaching out to straighten Tony’s wristwatch.

“One of Clint’s Legos,” Tony said. His voice was empty.

“Clint had Legos?” JJ said, sounding more amused than surprised. “Did he use them to set traps for unwary intruders or something?”

That startled Tony into a bit of a choked laugh. “Well, yeah. And to build gigantic buildings he can then knock down. Or he liked to unleash Dummy on the poor unsuspecting Lego people.”

JJ snorted. “I’m sure Dummy was delighted.”

Tony snickered. “Yeah, it’s a good thing Dummy isn’t as far-reaching as Jarvis, or he would have gone Skynet on us ages ago.” He grinned at the memory of Dummy gleefully destroying a Lego city, meeting JJ’s eyes for a moment. Then reality returned, and he felt his smile droop. Clint wasn’t around to build Lego cities anymore.

“Breakfast time, I think,” JJ remarked. “I made omelets.”

“Are omelets the only thing you actually know how to make?” Tony asked curiously.

“No, I can do chicken florentine and lasagna. And chocolate-chip cookies. But not snickerdoodles, I’m cursed. They always burn if I’m around. Always.”

“You can make lasagna but you can’t manage pancakes?”

JJ shrugged. “I never bothered to learn pancakes. My mom made me great ones growing up, and nowadays my roommate’s not-boyfriend-but-not-really-anything-else-either Wade tends to make them. In enormous quantities.”

“So you’re sick of ‘em, then,” Tony guessed.

JJ shrugged. “Not really, but nobody makes pancakes as good as Wade. Nobody. Sit.”

Tony sat at the bar as JJ moved around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients.

“So,” JJ asked, “Have you found anything yet?”

“Huh?”

“Do you really think none of us realize that you’re trying to avenge Clint right now?”

Tony sighed. “Natasha or Pepper?”

“Both. Also Bruce, Phil, and Steve. Thor hasn’t realized, but I think that’s because he’s trying to figure out the exact voltage to cause maximum pain for a maximum amount of time without death when the culprit is eventually caught.” JJ must have caught Tony’s surprised look. “Space viking,” he said. “Well? Anything?”

Tony shook his head. “A few leads, but they’ve all run cold,” he admitted. “Old records - apparently, this is just one more way Obie - Stane - _fuck_ \- screwed me over.”

“Have you tried passing them on to Coulson or Widow?” JJ asked. “Maybe the electronic trail ran cold, but they might be able to do some footwork.”

Tony played with his hands as JJ kept bustling around the kitchen, putting together breakfast.

“You know, you shouldn’t keep it all bottled up.”

Tony looked up, startled, to find JJ standing across the counter from him, eyes serious. “Huh?”

“If you keep bottling it up, it’ll just get worse. Exponential increase until explosion is imminent. Or implosion.”

“...It feels like I’m giving up on him,” Tony murmured. “Mourning, I mean. It’s… Avengers have come back from worse than an explosion before.”

JJ’s eyes were gentle. “It’s okay to feel however you feel, Tony. Logical or not. Clint wouldn’t blame you.”

Tony bit his lip and dropped his eyes. “You didn’t know him,” he protested half-heartedly.

“But I know you,” JJ replied.

They spent the rest of breakfast in silence.

* * *

Natasha lay flat on her back, staring at the polished aluminum of the vent above her. She breathed steadily. In, and out. Silent, even in the echoing confines. Too silent. Clint was the first person to show her it was okay to complain about shitty mission conditions, when she started working for SHIELD. He was always muttering under his breath about the cramped conditions, snarking with Coulson over the comms and cursing when Natasha jabbed him in the side to try to get him to shut up.

She listened to the team moving below her. JJ had dragged Tony out of his lair after breakfast, informing the genius that Pepper had the lab on lockdown for the next two hours, and he was to spend it with actual living people. The genius was too quiet, but Natasha could occasionally hear him swearing. Occasionally, he would start to say something, only to remember the intended recipient was absent.

Absent. It was a clinical word, in this context. Natasha couldn’t quite bring herself to voice it any other way, yet.

Steve’s quiet sketching broke up the silence a bit, and he tried his best to initiate conversations, however brief. He even went so far as to mix up Star Wars and Star Trek again. Natasha knew he knew what they were very well, but it was worth it to hear Tony string more than a dozen words together at a time to lecture the soldier on the differences. Bruce joined in, the easy banter sliding between the three for a few glorious minutes before gloom descended again.

Thor’s entrance was always loud, always booming. From the outside, he seemed not to have changed much. The stormy clouds hovering over New York and the constant threat of rain spoke differently. Thor had to be as careful with his emotions as Bruce in some ways. Otherwise, Natasha thought New York would have flooded by now. As it is, the city fashionistas were on the verge of rebelling due to the effects on their hair.

“And where is fierce Widow?” Thor asked.

“Present,” Natasha said from the vent, making everyone jump. Then they accepted it. Her team was the best, sometimes, at understanding when _not_ to say things.

“Hey, Jarvis, did Pepper lock me out of the vents, too?” Tony asked below her. 

“No, sir.”

“Mind if I join you, Nat?”

“Only if none of the giants follow you. Don’t want them getting stuck.”

The other three men in the room snorted. “No worries there,” Bruce said.

“I’ll bring a fuzzy blanket,” Tony said, and slipped away.

Tony wasn’t silent, not even as quiet as Clint, when he moved through the vents. Natasha heard him coming long before she saw him. She shifted, curling up to lean back against the wall of the vent - a maneuver that wouldn’t have been possible, had Tony not widened the vents in a few of the more common areas to accommodate Clint’s love of the ductwork. Soon enough, Tony was settling down next to her, practically pressed up against her side. He pushed a fuzzy blanket at her, then spread out his own. 

Inspecting the blanket, Natasha couldn’t help but smile, briefly. Tiny black spiders dotted the red fabric. Some wore ballet slippers. A couple clutched at teacups and coffee mugs. A few held weapons. “Lovely,” she murmured. Tony flushed a little next to her and grinned.

“Anything for my favorite coffee buddy,” he said. “Even if you drink tea a lot.”

Natasha shrugged. “I enjoy both.”

“Yeah.”

They sat quietly for a long time, in their spot in their vents. Clint’s spot.

“I found a purple Lego this morning,” Tony said.

“I found one a couple days ago,” Natasha sighed. “With my foot.”

“Yeah, that’s how I found this one.”

“Stupid idiotic pieces of inanimate plastic,” Natasha grumbled.

“That’s what I said! ...Not really what I meant, though.”

“No, me neither.”

Tony shifted, pressing up against Natasha’s side in a vent-version of a hug. She leaned back into him, both sharing a moment of sorrow. “Now what?” Tony asked.

“Now we find them,” Natasha said. She felt her voice cool and drop into something closer to her work voice. “And we make them _pay_.”

“All I’ve got are old records of arrows sold to the winter Olympics team,” Tony said wearily.

“It’s a start. I’ve found slipperier with less.”

“Keep it off books,” Steve said below them. “I don’t want any interference on this.”

“They’d better not try,” Bruce mumbled. He’d been on a bit of a hair-trigger lately.

“Avengers, assemble,” Tony said, and grinned wolfishly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifty zillion thanks to Hawkwind for being an amazing, amazing beta reader! And many thanks to all of you for all your great comments and reviews - I do read them all, even if I don't always have time to answer everyone. You all rock!
> 
> ~Era


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for terrible language.

Clint settled onto the most comfortable couch in the world with a sigh, kicking off his boots. It was a long walk back, made longer by looping back, backtracking, getting lost once, and finally getting stopped by a crazy old hobo insisting that the end of the world was nigh, and that Hawkeye’s death was just the first sign that something was wrong in the timeline.

Finally, sinking onto the couch quietly at almost midnight, Clint opened his laptop. He heard JJ muttering under his breath in his room, probably battling with homework or something, and the recording Peter left of himself doing the same thing. 

For the first time in several years, Clint powered the laptop on. It was old but efficient; despite being hidden in an illusory wall in an alley in Queens, it turned on without issue once Clint had plugged it in. He quickly navigated to the encryptor, turning on the system he had been assured would keep him off-grid. Then, he opened a browser. Firefox.

Offline.

Right. Clint sighed, setting the laptop aside on the couch. He stood, stretching, and made his way to the fridge, wincing as he felt a blister pop on his left heel, squishing in his sock. He retrieved the wifi password from where it was pinned by a magnet shaped like a penguin in a sombrero, and returned to the couch. Sitting with a small groan, he leaned over to pick up the laptop.

Only to find that it was sitting in the lap of someone wearing a black hoody and jeans that had some suspiciously blood-like stains on them.

In an instant, Clint was back on his feet and backing towards the nearby coffee table, which he had retrieved for the apartment for the sole purpose of taping an emergency gun to the bottom of it. The figure on the couch turned to look at him with a theatrical gasp. 

“Honey, how _could_ you?” it demanded in a high falsetto. 

Clint paused. “...What?”

The man had a face like a burn scar victim, only a thousand times worse. His hands were pressed to his cheeks, mouth open in a perfect o of horrified indignity. 

“Faking your own death, that’s MY thing,” the man said, accusatory. “I’ve done it at least once. Twice? Definitely sometime.” 

“I… sorry?”

The man sniffed. “You should be. You’ve used Jarvis the love god for evil. This cannot be forgiven, you understand.”

“Love…”

“That’s what it’s all about,” the man said, nodding sagely. “All you need is looooove~”

Clint stared at the man, utterly lost. Last time he’d been this confused, he’d run into - “Deadpool?”

“It’s Wade, here,” Deadpool replied cheerily. “We’re pretending JJ doesn’t know anything so that Petey-pie doesn’t have a panic attack.”

Clint gave a slow nod, pretending that anything the man had said in the last few minutes made sense. “Can I have that back?”

Wade Wilson looked honestly surprised when he glanced at the laptop on his lap. Like he’d forgotten it was there. “I mean, sure. Don’t know why you’re tracking an addict to Sponcer’s, though.”

“What?”

“I mean, he’s hit every one in a ten mile radius, which is like three, but still.”

“They have terrible reception, good way to lose someone tracking a phone,” Clint said automatically. He shifted across the apartment, hands shaking slightly with the sudden adrenaline rush. Energy with nowhere to go. He flopped back onto the couch. Wade picked up the laptop, leaned uncomfortably close, and dropped the laptop on Clint’s lap. Clint fumbled with it, managing to grab it before it fell. He blinked when he saw that the internet was working. He tapped a key on the keyboard. Yep, still annoyingly loud keys.

“You have the wifi password,” Clint stated.

“Well, yeah.”

Clint decided to ignore the implications of Deadpool having Spider-Man’s wifi password in favor of looking at the screen. Wheezy, it seemed, had maneuvered his way across the city in a similar manner as Clint - all backtracking and looping and possibly getting lost. He had indeed gone through all three Sponcer’s, as well as two parking garages and a movie theatre. Wheezy covered an impressive amount of ground. 

Deadpool started humming “All You Need is Love.”

Clint took a deep breath. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“No.”

Clint groaned, looking back at the tracking site. He clicked out of the history report to look at the live tracker. It blinked at an intersection in the middle village. Pulling up Google Maps in another tab, Clint typed in the address. There was a place for Thai food there. 

“You know this has a tracker in it, right?” 

Clint turned to find Deadpool messing with the phone he’d retrieved. Deadpool clicked the lock and unlock button several times. The phone had a…

“Shit!” Clint said. “Shit, shit -” he reached out and grabbed the phone. He ignored the resulting whining from Deadpool. He stood, slamming the laptop shut and tossing it aside. He raced to the front door, slipped on his beat up sneakers, and ran out the door.

Clint tried to remember how long he’d been in the apartment with the phone. It can’t have been too long, considering how late he got back. But had it been long enough for the phone to be tracked? What were the chances of a Wheezy guy being at a Thai place in Midtown at nearly one AM, anyway. Fuck, he’d messed up.

His feet ached, the blister on his heel stinging with every step. 

(In the background, Deadpool winked at the camera.)

Clint was quick to move, stopping briefly at several spots. He looped back and around. He kept moving, even as he yawned. As he moved, he checked the phone GPS logs. He noted that the phone had been to an address in New Jersey a few times, as well as two addresses in New York. The shitty side of town. Eventually, he found an empty business building. The store inside, a small fashion boutique, wouldn’t open until eleven the next morning.

Clint sat on the roof, sharp eyes watching the area around him. Movement on the corner - two teenagers with spray paint. A flash in an alley down the road - there then gone. He sat there for three hours, until he was shivering in the night air from the air blowing across the roof. There would be a storm tomorrow.

Then, he took the GPS chip out of the phone and crushed it beneath his blistered heel. Hopefully that would be enough. Clint wouldn’t be able to go back to the apartment for a few days though. Maybe he was being paranoid, but it was likely the place would be watched, if anyone had noticed and tracked the phone in time. Shit. He needed to warn Peter.

Clint stuck his hand in his pocket. His hand met lint and air. In his haste to leave the apartment, he’d forgotten to grab his burner.

Clint climbed down the fire escape and headed into the city, turning off the phone and shoving it into his pocket. He needed to move. He needed to sleep. But before anything else, he needed to figure out a way to warn JJ and Peter. If Clint’s moping got either of them hurt…

Clint’s fist tightened around the stolen phone in his pocket, and he felt another blister pop on his foot.

* * *

JJ heard Clint arrive. Wade came in through JJ’s window, so JJ also heard Wade arrive. Then, he heard Clint leave, very quickly, and Wade went back out JJ’s window, saying something about doing a background shot.

JJ never heard Clint come back.

As a result, JJ was exhausted. He swayed as his morning bus moved, on its way to SI. Most of the people on this bus were headed there. In the mornings, it sometimes felt like a good three quarters of NY went to the tower. A little old lady in the corner was giving JJ weird looks.

Something tapped on his shoulder. JJ turned, expecting someone to glower at him for setting his backpack between his feet rather than holding it. Instead, he came face to face with a very dirty man wearing jeans, a hoody, and a scarf that covered most of his lower face. JJ stared at the man for a long moment, tired mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. He registered the dark shadows under the man’s eyes, and then the eyes themselves.

JJ knew those eyes.

His own eyes widened. “Cl -”

“SH!”

JJ’s eyes narrowed. Clint swayed in place in front of him.

“Dropped this,” Clint croaked, holding out JJ’s wallet. His voice was hoarse, like he’d done a lot of running. 

JJ took the (probably pickpocketed) wallet, and gave Clint a more thorough lookover. Clint kept shifting on his feet, like he couldn’t decide where to put his weight - or maybe, like he had an injury. His eyes were tired, possibly more than JJ’s own, and there were threads of stress and panic on Clint’s face that had finally started to disappear as they found somewhere to start in their goal to try and find whoever had caused all of this.

The bus shuddered to a stop. On a whim, JJ grabbed Clint and pushed him towards the doors. Clint, though startled, went. JJ picked up his bag, and they stumbled off the bus onto the street just before the doors swung closed, the bus racing away.

JJ tugged Clint down the road a ways, around a corner, and into a small coffee shop. He ordered two coffees with shots of espresso, and sat Clint at a bench.

“Where the hell were you?” he hissed. If they were somewhere more private, like the apartment, he’d probably be yelling.

Clint winced. “I fucked up,” he said. His voice was hoarse, breathing uneven.

Impatient, JJ passed Clint his water bottle. Clint drank the entire thing, rapidly. Once emptied, he handed the bottle back. JJ returned it to his bag.

“I found a lead,” Clint said. “I got excited.”

“So?”

“So I brought a phone with a fuckin’ tracker in it back to the apartment,” Clint said in a rush, something in his voice JJ couldn’t quite place. “I don’t know how long I was there with it! I think I threw the trail off, but if anyone was looking they’ll know it was there for a while -” 

Clint cut himself off as the barista set their drinks in front of them. His fingers trembled when he reached out to grab his cup.

JJ watched, frowning. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. He recalled a piece of information from the Guide Phil gave him. _Violet hawks are prone to avoiding professional medical treatment at all costs. While the violet hawk is adept at self-treatment of minor injuries, it often underestimates the relative severity of its injuries._ JJ needed to find somewhere that he could take Clint and check him. Not the apartment - he didn’t think Clint would be willing to head back there just yet, no matter what JJ said.

So. Somewhere nearby that provided privacy and didn’t ask questions. 

JJ sighed. “Come on,” he said, and stood.

Clint was wobbly as he moved to his feet, walking in a way that JJ suspected was hiding a limp. JJ led him around a few corners and down a few streets, tapping away on his phone. By the time they reached the library, JJ had a study room reserved and a friend waiting at the back door.

He prodded Clint forward through the stacks of books. Several other students politely ignored their coffee cups, and JJ politely ignored theirs. He talked under his breath to Clint, though he wasn’t entirely sure that the other man was listening. “I know most of the stops on the bus line pretty well,” he said. “Lately I’ve been a bit paranoid. This library hosts a few ‘victims of supervillainy’ support groups, so I know it pretty well. I’m sure you remember why.” 

“Yeah,” Clint replied.

JJ relaxed a little, opening the door to one of the study rooms and letting Clint in. He closed it behind them and tugged a couple of chairs around. Clint practically fell into one.

“So,” JJ said. “What happened?”

“Found a lead. That’s why I got in late yesterday - accidentally caught an express bus to get away. Headed back, made sure to avoid tails.”

So looped around a lot, JJ thought.

“Shoes off,” he said.

“Huh?”

JJ gave him a look. “You were walking weird. What is it - twisted ankle? Fell off a fire escape?”

Clint sighed and kicked off his shoes, grimacing. His white socks showed a few spots of blood. “Just blisters,” he said. “No big.”

JJ snorted. “How many blisters? I know you by now, go big or go home.”

“Some. It’s fine.”

JJ started ruffling through his bag. “And?” he prompted. 

“When I got home,” Clint said, “I settled in to check for the tracker I got on the guy. Figured the phone could wait, but the tracker was more likely to be spotted. Next thing I know, Dea- Wade’s sitting there on the couch.”

“Yeah, he does that.” JJ finally finds the pack of disinfectant and bandaids buried at the bottom of his bag, setting them on the table before he returned to his search. Protein and carbs, to go with the caffeine, maybe some sugar....

Clint continued. “He pointed out there was a tracker in the phone. So uh. The apartment building might be being watched, now. And I didn’t have my phone, so I couldn’t warn you or Peter.”

“Wade warned Peter to be careful about coming back, actually.” JJ finally located the bag of trail mix that had M&Ms in it. “Though he didn’t explain why. Feet.”

Clint blinked at him. JJ rolled his eyes and grabbed Clint’s calf, pulling one of his feet to rest in JJ’s lap. He pulled the sock off quickly, like a bandaid. A sharp intake of breath and a hiss out were the only signs that the action had hurt the archer.

JJ hissed, too. Clint’s feet were a mess of blisters, some popped and some not. “This is going to sting,” JJ said. He tried to keep his voice steady. JJ thought he was mostly successful. He’d never really planned for being a temporary nurse.

Reaching over to the table, he grabbed the alcohol wipes.

“Fuck,” Clint groaned, and shoved the end of the scarf he was wearing between his teeth.

JJ carefully wiped Clint’s foot clean, wincing in sympathy as he cleaned out the worst of the blisters and wiped away the blood. After wiping away the mess, he inspected the foot a little closer. A few of the popped blisters still oozed, and some had obviously been widened by Clint continuing to walk on them. 

Tossing the alcohol wipe onto the table, he grabbed the Neosporin he had and began rubbing it in and over the foot, gently. Then he topped it all off with bandaids. “Sadly, I don’t carry moleskin,” he said, releasing Clint’s foot and gesturing for the archer to set the other on in his lap. “But I’ll get some.”

JJ finished bandaging up Clint’s other foot, ignoring his own shaking hands as he took a deep breath. “You need to keep these clean,” he said. “Blisters can get infected just like everything else, you know.” 

Feet bandaged, Clint nodded at him, looking a little out-of-sorts. Then he glanced at his socks, and grimaced.

“No,” JJ said. He picked up the torn, messy socks and tossed them in an arc. One landed in the trash bin tucked behind the door. The other hung itself on the edge. Fumbling through his bag, JJ found a pair of dry socks. They were probably a little small for the archer, he thought as he inspected them, but they would do.

Clint pulled the socks on, looking like he was fitting in his own skin a little better now. “You’re… oddly prepared,” he said.

JJ shrugged, ignoring the way his shoulders went tense. “Yeah, well.”

Clint didn’t pry, his eyes drooping a bit as he sank in the chair.

“Now,” JJ said, and braced himself. “You’re going to head back to the apartment.”

Clint’s eyes shot back open. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“And how has that gone for you, historically speaking?”

“Low blow.”

“You are going back, if I have to drag you myself. And trust me, that will draw a lot more attention than if you just head over.” JJ paused. “Besides, I saw Wade sitting on the roof across the street this morning. Also, my roommate has a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“Oh. Right. Won’t he be at school though?”

“I doubt it. He has terrible attendance, he only manages to pass his classes because he does well enough that he can convince the few professors who care to let it slide.” No need to let on how much JJ helps with that, he thinks.

“...Fine.”

“Also,” JJ turned back to his bag. He gathered the unused supplies off of the table and stuffed them in his bag, then pulled out Clint’s burner phone. “This was on the table this morning. Here.”

Clint took the phone with a look of relief, and a little bewilderment. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

JJ shrugged. “Oh, you know, random college student.”

“I don’t think I believe you.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” JJ half-lied. “Now get, and take it easy on those feet. I need to come up with a good excuse for being late this morning - assuming Tony even notices.”

Clint nodded. Retrieving his probably cold coffee, he slipped his worn out shoes back on and stood. He gave JJ one more piercing look and left.

JJ slumped back in his chair with a sigh. He downed his lukewarm coffee, rubbed his temples, and finally took his vibrating phone out of his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back! Sorry for the disappearing act, but you know. Real life. Adulthood. D&D. Stuff happens. 
> 
> Aaaanyway, many thanks to Hawkwind1980 once again for being a brilliant, brilliant beta reader with the patience of a saint. I mean, there I am getting on to work on the fic for the first time in months, and not ten minutes later there she is helping me out. Seriously, send her donuts guys, all the donuts. :)
> 
> ALSO a zillion thanks for all of the comments that have been left in my absence! There are way too many to reply to, but I love reading them all and definitely appreciate the confidence boost.

**Author's Note:**

> Before we really get started; many thanks to Hawkwind1980, my every-faithful beta reader, whose superpowers include tense-checking and plunny breeding. You rock! :)


End file.
